Slow Descent
by psquare
Summary: Oneshot. Sam gets his second taste of demon-blood - and it's the best thing he's ever had. Set in 1.22: Devil's Trap. AU or Missing Scene - take your pick.


_**A/N**_: Okay, wow. This is the most writing I've done in any fandom. Apparently, my _Supernatural_ muse can't shut up. Also? Azazel is probably the best TV villian _ever_. Just throwing it out there.

**Warnings:** SPOILERS for 1.22: _Devil's Trap_, and general spoilers for Season 1. Swearing, uh, blood, utter and total weirdness, disjointed rambling.

So, yeah, this can be considered AU, although I think, with a bit of effort, it can be shoehorned into _Supernatural _canon. Just about.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

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_**Slow Descent**_

"Sam? Salt."

Sam was pretty sure that that was his brother holding out a salt shaker at him - just as sure as he was about the other two Deans standing on either side of him, holding out more salt shakers - but, but. Why - why was he standing in, uh. Everything was engaged in a slow, slooow whirl behind Dean, brown and viscous, and - Mudslide? Mudslide like the time in, in. Louisiana? Washington? He didn't remember; not that it mattered anyway, because it was a mudslide, so why the hell was Dean holding out a _salt shaker_ at him, Dean and his twin -

"Sam! Come on, man, pull yourself together."

All three Deans reached out at him, but it was the one in the middle that won, fingers closing around Sam's upper arm, and - _ow_. The world suddenly righted itself, ceiling and floor and wall clunking into their respective places like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle, and Dean's clones abruptly merged into the one in the middle, the one that was still shouting at him.

"Come on, Sammy, I need you sharp..."

_Sharp, sharp_. Sam swallowed against the acid rising up his oesophagus and tried to remember. Vision, Meg, the Colt, Dad, _Dad_ - the apartment complex and the demons (_always wanted to be a firefighter_) and being knocked down, and a whole new universe of _pain-pain-pain_ - "Yeah," Sam said, swallowing again. "I'm okay."

He took the salt-shaker from Dean and stumbled into one of the backrooms of the little cabin they had decided to take refuge in. The pain in his head and face spiked with every step he took, and the world hadn't quite finished moving - still shuffling its feet, as it were, for the next round of pirouettes. Dean had cleaned off the blood and given him a couple of painkillers before coming here, but Sam couldn't shake off the _wrong-wrong-wrong_ that dogged his every step and threatened to bring him to his knees.

Finally, Sam blinked, and with some effort, saw that he was in a small bedroom, and there was Dad (_don't you ever come back_), Dad? Of course it was Dad, he and Dean had just _rescued_ him, right? And Dad was sleeping; he looked tired, and so _old,_ that Sam was unnerved. For so much of his life his father had been this looming shadow, inspiring in equal parts fear and awe and love (_take this gun, Sammy, it'll protect you from the monsters under your bed_), close to omniscient, always with his _need-to-know_s and goddamned secrets, and, and, and. To see him so beaten down, to -

Nausea flared one time more - a warning shot - before a powerful wave ripped up his gullet, and Sam shoved himself into the tiny bathroom, hunched over the stained toilet bowl, and threw up whatever little he had eaten that day. Stringy saliva hung from his lips as he continued to retch, pain and utter misery provoking moisture from his eyes. When he was done, the pain was almost blinding, and, and, he just needed to rest, okay? Dean needed him (_I don't want to do this without you_), Dad needed him, so he was just going to - going to catch his breath, make sure his head wasn't going to split open and drip his brains all over the floor -

Sam slumped to the floor, partly inside the bathroom and partly spilling into the musty bedroom, his legs against cold tile and his torso and head resting on wood caked with several layers of accumulated dirt. Cold and hot, and hot and cold, and yeah, Sam was pretty much past caring by then, because there was a pressure building behind his eyes, the pressure along with the _wrong-wrong-wrong _and his messed-up face; along with what he was now pretty sure was a head injury, and the trembling exhaustion from having puked his guts out.

It felt like a Vision was coming on, and wasn't that just _great_?

Sam closed his eyes, wishing, _praying_ for respite, but the pressure just built, and built, and built, until his head was going to _explode_ -

"Sam."

Sam writhed a little, face scrunched up and limbs twitching in uncoordinated movements.

"Sam, open your eyes."

_Dad, dad, dad_. It was Dad, and that was his Order Voice, the kind of tone he was supposed to submit to with a meekly murmured _yes, sir_. The tone of voice that meant he had picked up on another hunt, another clue (_have to find what killed Mom, have to_), the tone of voice Sam had dreaded most of his childhood, and, somehow, always found hard to disobey. Even now, his eyes shot open, and his Dad's face presented in a kind of swimming blur, floating right above his own.

"You can feel it, can't you?" Dad said, and smiled. A small groan escaped Sam's lips. Feel it? Of course he could _feel _it: his whole world was a storm of relentless sensation. His eyes scrunched up, the world once again moving in slow circles, his father sort of fading in... and out.. and through it all, his eyes, always fixed on Sam, shifting in and out of brown, green, yellow, red... Sam's stomach clenched again, and he fought down another wave of nausea.

"Wait," Dad said. "I know something that'll make you feel all better."

He disappeared, and Sam took the opportunity to close his eyes, and focus completely on his breathing. He needed to pull himself together - at least for Dean's sake, if for nobody else's.

Suddenly a rough hand grabbed his chin, and Sam reflexively struggled, hands reaching up to swat at a muscular forearm that determinedly kept his head in place. "Sh, Sam," Dad said. "It's me. Try to relax; I'm going to give you something for the pain."

Sam still struggled lightly - if only on principle, now, because obviously he was not _such_ an invalid that he had to be forcefed medication! - but eased up enough for Dad to force his jaw open. For a few seconds nothing happened, before he finally felt the slow drip of a hot liquid against his tongue.

And it -

It tasted like -

_iron and copper and sulphur and ethereal sweetness_

"Swallow," Dad said, and abruptly closed his mouth. Sam swallowed.

And immediately felt that pressure behind his eyes explode.

Not the kind of nuclear explosion that he'd been expecting, thrusting his eyeballs out like twin missiles that spattered on the walls, but one that seemed to gather all the ache in his body, concentrate them in his eyes, and blow them out of existence in a spectacular burst of _something-fantastical_ that had him gasp and arch his back, all in one fell swoop.

Once Sam fell back onto the floor, once his breathing began to tear in and out of his burning nostrils like it was a separate entity from his own, a most pleasant tingling sensation replaced the now-vanquished pain, zinging up and down his nerves. Suddenly everything was in much, much sharper focus in his head (_need to kill the demon, Dean, need to_), and whatever it was that Dad'd given him? It was one of the best things he'd ever had.

No, scratch that. Make it the _best_. Sam smiled as his face relaxed.

"Yes," Dad said softly. "Tastes good, doesn't it? Better than mother's milk."

Sam frowned - didn't seem something like Dad would say - but he still didn't open his eyes, still revelling in the sudden peace, the sudden strength. He imagined it flow through him, in and out with every breath, and when he felt he was finally ready to let go of the sensation, he opened his eyes. Dad wasn't with him anymore, and the house had stopped its dance, thank god.

Sam scrambled to his feet, and looked around, to see Dad back in bed, sleeping (_strange_). He dunked his head under the running tap in the bathroom sink, wincing a little at the pressure against his bruises, allowing the water to wash away the last traces of dirt and vomit. That happy vigour still fuelled his limbs, and a tiny sliver of apprehension wedged in the back of his brain wondered what exactly Dad had given him, because, certainly it had miraculous properties, and it had tasted like bl -

He quickly let that train of thought derail.

He picked up the can of salt from the bedroom floor, and proceeded to finish salting all the backrooms. When he finally reached the front, Dean had finished laying down the devil's trap, and was completing a last round of protective wards. He didn't really respond to Sam's presence, and Sam quietly proceeded to the nearest window to lay down the salt, searching for words to thank his brother for saving his life with the Colt.

The sliver of apprehension piped again, and Sam enquired after Dad's health, only to be met by a non-committal response from Dean. _He'll be alright_, and hadn't it always been like that, all their lives? Dad was indestructible, right? Right. And of course, as if in cue, Dad appeared later in their conversation, tired and gentle and just _Dad_, sending Sam on another salt-line check, as if he didn't trust him to have laid everything down properly the first time. Sam decided not to argue this time, the flickering lights and Dad's fearful _He's coming_ ringing in his brains and driving his urgency.

He paused in the bedroom, though, kneeling by the entrance to the bathroom, squinting at the floor. A wide swath of dust had been cleared, by his body, no doubt, and _there_, right there, to the side - a spatter of blood. Sam was pretty sure he hadn't been bleeding from anywhere, so that only meant -

Sam swallowed against the lump of fear that formed in his throat (_can't let it blind me now, not now_) and went back to the front, where he found Dean holding a gun on their father.

Dad was pleading (_I'm me_), Dean was pleading (_He's not_), and Sam? Well, Sam hadn't really gotten over the shock to decide what to _do_, until he noticed the fresh red scar on Dad's right wrist, fresher than the light rope burns, still oozing blood slightly.

The lump of fear mutated into a horrible monster of panic and despair.

_oh god what did he __**give**__ me_

"No," Sam said, and went and stood by his brother.

_**Finis**_


End file.
